


Gone But Not Forgotten

by richmahogany



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: But can be read as friendship, Gen, a hint of pre-slash, no deaths despite the title
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-01
Updated: 2016-02-01
Packaged: 2018-05-17 15:18:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5875828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/richmahogany/pseuds/richmahogany
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Under the threat of Samaritan, Harold Wren is one of the identities that has to disappear. He never thought that anyone would actually look for him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gone But Not Forgotten

It was a lucky coincidence that Detective Riley happened to pass the front desk, where a flustered middle-aged woman tried to engage the bored desk sergeant, and his ear caught the name “Harold Wren”. He stopped and listened for a few more seconds, and found that the woman was trying to give a missing persons report. At this point Riley stepped in, told the desk sergeant “I’ll deal with this” and beckoned the woman to follow him. The sergeant shrugged. Missing persons were not Riley’s responsibility, but if he was keen on the extra work, who was he to stop him?

John made the woman sit down in a quiet corner of the waiting area and fetched her a glass of water. Then he sat down next to her and smiled encouragingly.

“I’m afraid you’ll have to start from the beginning. I understand you want to report someone missing?”

The woman took a sip of her water, then put the glass down and fussed nervously with the clasp of her purse. She was probably in her fifties, John thought, with gray hair arranged in tight curls around her head, and wearing a skirt suit of good quality, but in an unflattering shade of pink. Her drop-shaped earrings swung back and forth as she looked up at John and down at her purse again.

“It’s about my boss, Mr Wren,” she said slightly breathlessly. “Well, he’s not really my boss, I am just one of the secretaries, I work at Universal Heritage Insurance, and when Mr Wren is in the office…he doesn’t come in very often now, he doesn’t have to any more…but when he does, I work for him…but I haven’t seen him for I don’t know how many weeks, and I’m just so worried…”

“Wait a moment,” John interrupted the flow. “Can I first ask your name please?”

“Oh, yes, sorry, my name is McGarrigle, Carolyn McGarrigle.”

“And your boss’s name is Mr Wren?”

“Yes, Harold Wren. He’s…”

“You say he doesn’t come into the office very often. What makes you say now that he might be missing? I gather it’s not unusual for him to stay away for long periods of time?”

“Yes, but nobody knows where he is. I’ve asked other people, and they just don’t know. One of them actually said he’s probably not coming back, but he didn’t know why. And he left all his things in the office, and no instructions or anything. And usually you can reach him on the phone, but the number I have for him has been disconnected, and he doesn’t answer e-mails either. I’m just worried that something’s happened to him.”

“Why would you think that?”

“Well, it’s just so out of character for Mr Wren, to just disappear and not say anything. He’s always so considerate, you know, always letting me know exactly what he wants done, and if I need to get in touch he usually gets back to me within a day. But now – nothing! And because his health isn’t the best, I was thinking…”

“Any particular health problems that could cause him trouble?”

“No, I don’t know, it’s just…he’s disabled after an accident, you know, and he copes remarkably well, but I think it’s more difficult for him than he lets on. And I’m just so worried that maybe he’s had another accident, or a fall at his home, and…you hear these stories, don’t you, about people dying in their homes, and nobody notices until weeks later…”

At this point Ms McGarrigle was so overcome by her emotions that she fumbled in her purse for a handkerchief and dabbed her face with it.

John for his part could now pretty well piece together what had happened. When Samaritan came online and the library was compromised, all of Harold’s aliases had to disappear, among them Harold Wren. He probably never thought that anyone would actually miss him. Well, that was a little mess for Harold to sort out. He calmed Ms McGarrigle down, reassured her that he would try his best to track Mr Wren down, listened as she gave a pretty accurate description of Harold, pretended to take some notes, and then escorted the woman out with a promise to be in touch soon.

That evening when John came into their secret lair, Harold was already there, busily typing. He stopped and looked up at his partner as he leaned against the desk right next to Harold’s chair.

“Everybody is relevant to someone,” John couldn’t resist telling Harold with a smirk, “even Harold Wren.”

That got him a raise of both eyebrows.

“I had a Ms McGarrigle down at the precinct today, crying her eyes out with worry about her boss,” John continued.

“Oh.”

“Yes, oh. She wanted to report him missing. Lucky I was there to head her off before she could spill everything to the desk sergeant.”

“Yes, that was lucky. Oh dear. I never thought anyone would go looking for me.”

“But didn’t you think of that when you were creating all these aliases? Did it not occur to you that you would have to abandon some of them without leaving any ends dangling?”

“Of course it did, Mr Reese. I had elaborate exit strategies for all of them. But when it came to it, it all happened to fast, I didn’t have the time to execute them. I was able to create a contingency for Will, but that’s all.”

A look passed between them, silently communicating that while they had never talked about Will, Harold knew that John was aware who he was.

“I think you’d better come up with an explanation for Ms McGarrigle,” John said.

“Why, can’t you just tell her you didn’t find anything and it’s all a mystery?”

“Have a heart, Harold. She’s really quite distraught by your disappearance, you’ve got to give her some closure at least.”

“Well, tell her I’m dead then.”

“Can’t you think of something else? She’s already having visions of your rotting corpse lying in a lonely apartment, and I really don’t want her in hysterics at the precinct. She cares about you, Harold. Do something for her.”

Harold stared at his screen. He remembered Ms McGarrigle very well. Not the most efficient of workers, but she always completed the tasks he gave her, and he never had any complaints. She had always been very friendly as well, a bit too friendly sometimes, almost motherly, particularly after his “accident”. At first he had recoiled from her overtly solicitous manner, but in time he had realized that it sprang not from pity, but from true compassion.

“She was always very kind to me,” he said, more to himself than to John. Then he sighed.

“Alright. I’ll think of something.”

John made himself useful by getting them something to eat while Harold worked on his cover story. It wasn’t until the next evening, though, that he handed John a piece of paper with the words:

“That’s the best I can do.”

It was letter on headed paper, purporting to be from the manager of the “Nepenthe Gardens Rest Resort” in a small town in Arizona, complete with logo and web address. It explained that while staying in Phoenix, Mr Wren had unfortunately suffered a massive stroke.

“Despite the best efforts of the doctors,” it went on to say, “this has left him paralyzed down one side and unable to communicate. Since Mr Wren has no family, his solicitor thought it best to spare him the stressful trip back east on his discharge from the hospital. He has instead arranged for Mr Wren to be taken into our care here at Nepenthe Gardens. Our specialized facilities are particularly equipped to care for clients with severe disabilities and complex needs, such as Mr Wren. While he is still having regular therapy, the prognosis is not encouraging, and it has to be assumed that his condition will not improve significantly. Please rest assured that we are giving him the best care and making every effort to give him all the security and comfort he needs.”

John looked at Harold and shook his head.

“She’s not going to like that either.”

“Well, at least he’s not dead.”

“Some might say he’d be better off if he was.”

“Some might,” Finch conceded, “but not her, if I judge her correctly.”

John looked back at the letter. Reading this had stirred up some unwelcome thoughts. Both of them knew, and had said so more than once, that sooner or later they would probably wind up dead. What neither of them had considered – or at least John hadn’t, he couldn’t be sure about Finch – was that there was an equal chance of either of them being injured so badly that they would never recover. What would they do then? If it was him – well, Finch could stick him into a facility like Nepenthe Gardens and get a replacement. He hoped that by now he had become something more than just an employee to Finch, who could be hired and fired at will, but the Numbers took precedence, and this would be the most sensible and efficient course. If that was the case, however, he would probably prefer to be dead.

And what if it happened to Finch?

“Would you rather be dead?” he asked suddenly.

“What?”

John waved the letter at Harold.

“If this had really happened – would you prefer to be dead?”

Normally this was not a subject which Harold was keen to dwell on. He was tempted to dismiss it with a bit of well-placed sarcasm, but then he saw how serious John was about this. He thought for a moment to give John a proper answer.

“I have had ample opportunity in the past to think about it,” he finally said. “Back then I came to the conclusion that as long as I could do something, anything, however small that thing was, I had to stay alive and do it. In the end, to give in to death would have been a cop-out. However much it hurt, there was a task waiting for me, a responsibility that I could not abdicate. If it was like this, however…,“ he gestured towards the letter, “if I couldn’t do anything at all – I think it would come down to this: if there was someone in the world, just one person, to whom my continued existence would matter in any way – then no, I would not want to be dead. But I don’t know if there is such a person at all.”

He had spoken that last bit very quietly, looking down on his hands.

John felt his heart lurch. How could Harold not know? Nothing mattered more to John than Harold’s “continued existence”. No matter what happened, in sickness and in health, as the phrase went, he could not bear to be parted from Harold. He wanted to take Harold in his arms, hold him tight, make him realize that he was the most important person in John’s life. But instead he just said:

“Yes, there is, Harold.”

“Really? Even if…”

He nodded towards the letter.

“Yes, Harold. Always.”

“Oh.”

Harold looked up at John and blushed slightly. After a pause he asked:

“And you? Would you rather be dead? I can’t really imagine you wanting to live like this.”

“I was going to say the same as you, Harold – as long as there was someone who wanted me in their life, I would live for them. But only if I could be certain that I wouldn’t be a burden in any way.”

“No, you wouldn’t,” said Harold.

“Even if I…”

“No, never.”

Harold blushed deeper but he continued to look at John. John’s heart beat a bit faster. This was the closest either of them had ever come to declaring how important the other man was for them. John couldn’t help himself, he needed a physical connection to Harold, just to make sure that this was real. He reached out, put a hand on Harold’s shoulder and squeezed slightly. Harold didn’t flinch away, as John had feared he might. He didn’t return the touch, but he smiled at John, acknowledging the connection.

Then the moment of intimacy passed, Harold turned back to his computer and John busied himself with one of his guns.

John had intended to wait a week or so before contacting Ms McGarrigle again. Obviously Riley would need some time to do his detective work. But Ms McGarrigle pre-empted him by showing up at the precinct only four days later. He took her to a quiet corner again and gave her the bad-but-could-be-worse news. He showed her the letter from the supposed care home manager, which caused her to fumble for her handkerchief again.

“Poor Mr Wren,” she sniffled, “this is not the news I was hoping for.”

“I know,” John told her gently, “but he is in good hands, I’m sure.”

“But what is this place like? Are they really taking good care of him? If only I knew…maybe I should go and visit him…”

Oh no, thought John, that’s exactly what Harold had tried to prevent with this story. He just wished that Harold hadn’t been quite so brief and matter of fact with this letter. But Harold didn’t do embellishments, and it was now up to John to come up with the details that would put Ms McGarrigle’s mind at rest.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he told her. “I’m sorry to say that the stroke has significantly impaired Mr Wren’s brain functions. He probably wouldn’t recognize you at all. I spoke to one of the nurses on the phone, and from her description he’s in the best place he could be. The home is in a quiet spot, and the climate down there is really beneficial. They have beautiful gardens, and the nurse told me that Mr Wren loves to sit outside and watch the hummingbirds on the feeders. She says he’s quite happy and content, and they are all very fond of him.”

This prompted another flood of tears from Ms McGarrigle, but she nodded, and when she was able to speak again, she said:

“Thank you, Detective. I can picture him there now, and I think you’re right. It sounds like he’s in the best place for him. I’m just so sorry that I didn’t get to say goodbye. But these things happen so suddenly, don’t they? It’s just fate, nothing you can do about it.”

She sighed, dabbed her face one last time, stowed her handkerchief in her purse and got up.

“Thank you for finding all this out. I’m very sad for Mr Wren, but it’s better than not knowing. I feel better now.”

When she had finally left, not without thanking the detective a few times more, John breathed a sigh of relief. Disaster averted, he thought. Harold had been right after all in his judgment of his former secretary.

He told Harold as much when he saw him that night.

“Good,” said Harold absentmindedly, with his eyes on the computer screen as usual. But John wasn’t satisfied yet.

“Harold,” he said in a tone that had his friend stop typing and turn round to him.

“Did you really not see this coming? Did you not think that someone, at least, would go looking for you?”

“No, I didn’t,” Harold said, frowning. “It never occurred to me. Why would they?”

“I think you seriously underestimate your capacity for making people care about you.”

“They’re not supposed to care about me!” Harold burst out. “When people care about me, that’s when things go wrong! I can’t be close to anyone, it’s too dangerous.”

“Is that why you said you didn’t expect me to come after you when Root took you the first time?” John asked.

“Yes!”

Harold had calmed down again, but he was still frowning.

“And yet you left a trail of breadcrumbs for me to follow.”

“Yes,” said Harold. He had gone very quiet all of a sudden. “I meant it when I said I wasn’t expecting you to come for me. But…” Harold’s voice was only a whisper now. “I allowed myself to hope you would.”

That admission touched John so much that all his feelings for Harold welled up inside him. He took a quick step towards Harold’s chair, crouched down and took Harold’s hands in his.

“I would go to the ends of the Earth to find you,” he said. “You know that, don’t you?”

“Yes, I know.”

Harold held his hands completely still in John’s grasp, but he didn’t pull away. He smiled at John with an expression that was more unguarded than he had ever seen it. It was full of affection, and a fleeting glimpse of something else – a longing, perhaps, a kind of unspoken desire. It disappeared almost as soon as John had recognized it.

The spell was broken by a noise from outside – Shaw and Bear returning from a walk. Their hands slid apart, John stood up again and Harold sought refuge behind his computer. But they both had articulated something that had been lurking deep inside them, unspoken, for a long time. And they were both glad that they had.

**Author's Note:**

> The "Nepenthe Gardens Rest Resort" is borrowed from Watchmen.


End file.
